


The Show

by jinx32 (WendyNever)



Category: Major League Baseball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:07:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNever/pseuds/jinx32
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place just after the 2006 All Star Game during which the press expected these two to do something stupid and fine-worthy since they had a history of aggression and hitting with pitches and bat throwing during the 4 season leading up to that game. They did not supply the sport media with anything good that night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Show

Scene: Locker Room long after the game has ended and everyone else has gone home. Piazza and Clemens have both tarried in the hopes of avoiding stupid questions from overzealous reporters. . . .

"That was tough, you eating all that shit in the first. What was it six runs on five hits? That's what you get, throwing those big, hairy meatballs across the middle of the plate. Center stage and you choke," Piazza finally broke the silence with great aplomb.

"Almost as sorry as you strikin' out," Clemens replied.

"You know what's the most fucked thing about the whole Piazza-Clemens Show?" Piazza asked.

"The Clemens-Piazza Show," Clemens corrected.

"Fuck, whatever. The most fucked thing in this is that the only fuck on the planet who knows exactly how all this media circus dogshit tastes is you. Fuckin' you," Piazza said, nearly laughing with the irony.

"That is pretty fucked up. God I wish I hadn't started this shit, but who knew it'd get this so far out of hand?" It was the best off-handed apology he could give in the face of Piazza's angry commiseration.

"It is all your Goddamn fault, isn't it, shithead." Apology accepted.

"It'll pass, you know. Somebody else will screw up soon enough," Clemens offered. Maybe they could even be civil to each other in the future, instead of just aggressively silent.

"Yeah, 'til we're both on the same diamond and they start this up again. Tell me you're gonna fuckin' retire soon?" Piazza asked the older man.

"Don't know, might hang around just to fuck with you."

Piazza gave in and laughed then, a rich baritone echoing through the empty locker room. "Oh shit. I can't . . ." Piazza buried his face in his hands trying to regain his composure.

"What?" Clemens wanted in on the joke.

"I can't, man, I can't."

"The fuck you can't. What's so Goddamn funny, Piazza?"

"Okay okay, I was just thinking about how we could fuck with the media, you know, give 'em something to write about. A little fire to go with all the smoke they've been blowing," Piazza said, raising a suggestive eyebrow.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know there've been rumors about me, rumors about uh, the company I choose to keep."

"You mean the fag rumors," Clemens said before really thinking.

"Damn, you'll get your ass really fried in the press saying it like that, man."

"Like it'd feel any different from the last week."

"Point. Anyway, there're people who think I'm bent. It bugged the crap outta me when I first heard it, but now it's kind of this joke."

"So, what's your point?"

"Wanna see how far we can push things, Roger?"

"What do you wanna push?"

"How about the fuckin' Gay Agenda?"

"Damn, you're one sick asshole, Piazza."

"I fuckin' am."

"You fuckin' are."

"So, you wanna make a spectacle of yourself with me on our own terms? You wanna fucking flip off the world, Roger?"

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I must be one sick asshole too."

"You fuckin' must be."

"I fuckin' must be. So how?"

"We leave here together, some of the dogs'll still be waiting outside, lookin' for a  
bone," Piazza replied, laying out the plan with faux earnestness.

"But no comments, right?"

"Right and then we hang out together at the hotel tonight, let everybody see us."

"Hang out?" Clemens inquired, a bit wary.

"Nothing overt, just us being nice and friendly. Then we spend the night in the same room and we get seen leaving together in the morning."

"Shit, you are one sick fuck."

"One sick fuck."

And they did it. They left together, Clemens blocking Piazza from the few cameras and microphones with his body, pulling him along possessively by the upper arm, getting free of them by getting into Clemens' car. Then they made the rounds of the team reception at the league's hotel and a few Houston nightclubs just to see how much they could stir up, trading cuts and one-upping each other with insults that neither they nor the bystanders in their wake knew for sure were joking. Then they went back to the hotel, even though Clemens could have gone home, even though they'd put plenty of seeds out there for the rumors to grow from, even though they didn't really like each other and were just blowing off steam together on account of being weirdly thrust together by their own tempest in a teacup. They made sure to make noise as they went to Piazza's room. Noise in the lobby, noise in the hallway and noise, banging on the walls for a few minutes after they got into the room.

"Hey Mike, give it a rest, will you?" Clemens asked, while watching Piazza standing at the bathroom mirror, worrying a spot on his neck to fake a love bite.

"Wanna watch some porn?"

"Mike, it's late, I'm tired and I don't even watch porn with my friends. Why would I watch it with you? I'm just gonna go. It's been um, well it's been interesting."

"Aw come on, Roger. I thought we were gonna go to breakfast and think about when somebody in the press gets wind of us watching the nasty pay-per-view."

"Mike, I don't know why this whole thing seems so damn funny in the locker room, but I'm done, really."

"Knew you'd pussy out."

"You know what, fuck you."

"Yeah, fuck you too, pussy."

"Psycho-fag."

"Pussy." Laughing, Piazza was frickin' laughing!

"Dammit, don't you make this shit funny again. I can't do this, shithead. I shouldn't have done it in the first place." Clemens laughed too.

"We'll be more convincing tomorrow at brunch if we both have that swagger."

"Swagger? Why the hell do I keep listening to the shit that comes out of your mouth, Piazza? What swagger?"

"You know, the 'I got me some last night' swagger. You can't fake it."

"You can't?"

"No, people can tell if it's real or not."

"More bullshit, Piazza, why am I not surprised?"

"Don't worry man, we'll just watch the movie with the lights out. You can pretend I'm not here and take care of yourself."

"No."

"No, you want me to take care of you?" Piazza offered.

"No! I'll do it in the shower later." Did he just agree to jerk off so no one would spot his fuckin' 'fake swagger'?

"Suit yourself, just don't expect me to hide in the shower, man."

"You wouldn't?" Would he?

"Watch me," Piazza invited.

"No thanks."

"Your loss."

Why Clemens didn't leave? He'd never admit to himself. He told himself it was because the whole farce was funny, not anything else, really. Shit, really! So there they were, watching some nasty skin-flick Piazza picked out lying each on his own bed (queen sized beds of course). Clemens had been almost sure Piazza wouldn't actually do it and it was a good ten minutes into the movie before there was any sign he'd guessed wrong. Oh boy had he guessed wrong. Clemens tried to keep his attention on the TV, but Piazza was noisy, so he couldn't help but glance over every now and again, catching a glimpse of motion and sweat-glistened skin. Then Piazza was up, standing between the beds, stripping down and pulling something unseen from the nightstand before returning to his bed and lying back, both hands working between his legs.

Clemens was hard. He knew it had to be because of the 'actress' getting plowed in the porno. She was blonde and too skinny for her fake boobs, just his type. It was by no means related to the fact that Piazza was working himself over next to him. Especially since Piazza had abandoned his cock and was fucking himself with his fingers.

"Hey Roger," Piazza coaxed, "wanna help me out here?"

"Fuck, no."

Piazza abruptly stopped what he was doing (himself), grabbed the remote and snapped off the TV. "Why the fuck are you still here if you don't want to do me?"

"I'm stupid?"

"No shit, but why are you here?" Piazza was standing just in front of him, his still fully erect member swaying in a random rhythm, which emphasized what he was saying, and it was more than Clemens could take after everything they'd said and done to each other over the last four years, over the last few hours, since they got here to the room. Clemens just slipped to his knees and sucked it in, at least that was his intention. But, it tasted bitter and it was bigger around than he'd imagined and so it was less like kissing (as he'd thought it would be) and more like a trip to the dentist (he was drooling too much, his jaw was already getting sore and he was afraid if he forgot himself, he might accidentally bite). He was about to back off and apologize, maybe offer Piazza a hand job instead, when Piazza wrapped his hands around his ears and started thrusting shallowly, fucking his mouth. It was then that Clemens realized that the drooling was a plus. He also found that since he was kneeling upright, he could just relax his jaw and let Piazza do the work, so it did start to be more like kissing or fucking which, in a way, it was.

Clemens wrapped his arms around Piazza's thighs for balance and just let him go. Soon Piazza's thrusts grew harder, deeper and his rhythm more random as he got near the end. He was chanting a stream of profanity in worship to Clemens' mouth, grunting Roger's name every fourth syllable or so. Just when the thrusts were getting too rough and Clemens thought he might not be able to breath, Piazza convulsed and spurted into his mouth. Clemens was surprised to find it felt almost numbing with how bitter it was. Suddenly he was back at the dentist's again. Still he swallowed as much as he could and wiped the rest up with is sweaty shirttails.

Before he really registered what was happening, Piazza had dragged him up onto the bed and had his pants and boxers down to mid-thigh, roughly pulling and twisting Clemens' needy cock before going back to the nightstand for something. At Clemens' rough inhalation as Piazza rolled the condom on, Piazza said, "Come-on Roger, you're a pitcher, I'm a catcher. You can't actually be surprised." But he was. Even more so when Piazza slid down onto his lap like it was old hat to be getting his ass fucked, which it must have been since he'd had the lubricant and knew just how to get Clemens to suck him off even though he'd never had a gay thought in his life before that night.

It was oddly familiar, but tremendously different, tighter than he remembered any woman being except maybe Maryjane Korzybski who'd been a virgin when he'd had her after the Homecoming Dance senior year. The feel, sight and sound of Piazza bouncing up and down on his dick was more than he'd even imagined and he lost it after an embarrassingly short time, coming in heated, grunty plunges, seeing colors like he hadn't since he was a teenager, drifting from bliss into sleep with no regard for where he was or who he was with.

When Clemens awoke in the morning, Piazza was in the shower, singing something unrecognizable. Maybe it was not the best plan, seeing as he wasn't planning to retire yet, so there might come a day that he'd be facing Piazza across the plate again or even worse, while trying to bat, knowing Piazza was squatting just behind him, probably muttering a similar string of profanities to the ones he used last night, but Clemens skipped out anyway. It's not as though he was screwing up some great romantic possibility and they weren't even really friends, more like reluctant rivals because of Clemens own inability to control his passions. He'd thought he learned something about controlling his passions over the last four years, but now it seemed he hadn't. Or, maybe it was just Piazza. Maybe Piazza brought out the untamed in him. Either way, it didn't matter. It was done, finished, game over, thanks for playing, see ya next year.

Next year? God he hoped not.


End file.
